If the artist cannot find her pen,
What is she? Then?
Or, simply a human without a purpose
or so the world tells her.
If the artist cannot find her pen
she will make one
out of the muck and the dirt and the lies of the world, until
she may then become one.
She will spread her thoughts
on the walls, on the streets,
and let the city determine its meaning.
And when the rain comes,
this crude canvas will wash clean.
This rain will flood the cries of critics
into the gutter.
For when their voices screamed "imperfect",
she then knew the truth:
She will take up another pen, if she chooses,
knowing the secret the world tries to keep from her-
She never needed a pen.
She was, already.